


The Wandering Bow

by the_inked_quill



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Coming of Age, Gen, Lots of OCs - Freeform, OCs - Freeform, Original Fan Fiction, References to First and Second Age events, archer bros, diva!Falasgil, gratuitous Third Age history, lol bear with me, somehow the horse became a main character too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_inked_quill/pseuds/the_inked_quill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the start of the Third Age, a young hunter of Imladris comes of age and decides to forge his own path in the wilds of Arda. This is his story - of how he became Cúrandir, the Wandering Bow, and how he was caught up in the struggle of Eriador against the shadow arising again in Angmar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started as RP backstory for one of my characters in the MMORPG The Lord of the Rings Online.

"Onwards, Amloth, onwards!" The young rider urged his steed onwards through the night, deftly dodging the odd branch overhanging the narrow path. Crouching low in the saddle, he glanced at the stars above. _Two hours until midnight._  He was thankful that there was no moon tonight, for his departure from Imladris would be concealed from watchful eyes, and if he was missed the next morning, he would be half a day's journey ahead.

Tancamir reined in his horse as the ground began to slope more steeply downwards. At a careful trot, they came to the edge of the Gorge of Bruinen, where a narrow path slithered downwards in the gloom. Far below, the waters of the Bruinen glimmered faintly in the starlight, foaming and bubbling over the rocky shallows of the Ford. Noiselessly horse and rider descended the path until they came to the riverbank. Sandy brown hair spilled over his shoulders as  he tossed back his hood. A great bow and finely wrought quiver were slung across his back, and a sheathed sword hung at his side. He brought Amloth to a halt at the river's edge, grey eyes flicking over the few bundles of gear strapped to the saddle. Tightening his gauntlets around his wrists, he bent low to whisper in his horse's ear.

Amloth sprang forwards, hooves thundering over the rocks of the Ford as sprays of water flew up about his feet. Wind whipped Amloth's mane into his face but Tancamir spurred his mount on, revelling in the rush of speed and the thrill of freedom.  Every step took him further from the Valley of Imladris, further from the hateful life forced upon him. Let his father and sister prate of books and letters in the gilded cage which they called Imladris - all the wilds of Arda lay open before him, and none could hold him back. Tancamir threw back his head and laughed defiantly, exhilaration coursing through his veins. He would be free to forge his own path, to wander the Wild as he chose best. What could his father do now to bar his way? As if sensing his rider's joy, Amloth whinnied and tossed his mane, and the foam of the Bruinen sprang upwards like sparks struck from the pounding of his hooves.

They gained the far bank, drenched but unaware of it in their excitement, and Tancamir eased Amloth into a slow canter. The road wound ever westward through great stands of oak and poplar, which cast a welcome shadow over their path. Horse and rider seemed to melt into the shifting shadows as one, and the murmur of wind in the branches covered the sounds of their passing. They rode west for what seemed to be hours, with  only the wheeling stars above as company. It was shortly after midnight when Tancamir guided Amloth off the path, taking a narrow trail that wound north and west over rocky slopes overgrown with brambles and ferns. A year before, he had discovered an old hunting lodge in disrepair on the borders of the wood. There were supplies there, hidden for the next phase of his journey. If all went well, they would reach the lodge an hour before dawn. The trees grew closer here, and at times Tancamir had to dismount and lead Amloth through dense thickets, or around fallen trees which barred the way.

It was slow going, but Tancamir whispered urgently to Amloth, gripping the reins firmly and keeping a hand on his bow. They must reach the lodge before dawn, for now they drew close to lands where trolls were said to lurk. Few had seen them in the woods around Imladris, but there had been reports of several skirmishes with trolls in the northern borders of the land, where they came down from their haunts in the Ettenmoors. Tancamir scanned the wood for signs of the beasts, one hand resting on his bow. So far he had seen nothing but a stray wolf-track on the ground here and there, and trampled underbrush where deer had passed through.

As they passed over the crest of a low hill, he came sharply to a halt. Far ahead, in a little hollow partly hidden by trees, a small fire cast its sickly glow on a great misshapen form squatting beside it. Tancamir sucked in a breath. _Trolls._ Amloth champed nervously at the bit, but Tancamir laid a soothing hand on his neck and whispered softly in his ear.

"Still now, _mellon nîn._ Wait here for me."

He tied Amloth by the reins to a sturdy oak with spreading branches. Hefting his bow in one hand, he swung himself onto the lowest branch and began to climb upwards. From his vantage point in the tree, he could see that there was only one troll beside the fire. Since childhood he had loved nothing more than the thrill of bringing down a stag or even a bear - surely a troll was only a larger sort of beast, to be hunted and felled like any other. He had left home seeking adventure, and here one had practically fallen in his path. Deftly he ran along the length of the oak bough and leapt forwards onto an overhanging branch from a nearby tree. Passing from tree to tree, he stalked toward his prey noiselessly, a silent blur of green and dun amid the spring leaves. Now he halted, bracing himself against the bole of an elm tree, and nocked an arrow to his bow. Fifty paces away, the troll sat staring into the fire. Tancamir watched the beast with hawk-like precision, and finally loosed an arrow when it looked in his direction.

The soft _twang_ of his bowstring was followed by a monstrous bellow as the arrow pierced the beast's left eye. The troll thrashed about, holding its head in its hands. Without thinking, Tancamir fitted another arrow to his bow and shot at its open mouth. Swiftly he loosed several more arrows at its throat, smiling with grim satisfaction as the beast toppled to the ground. Leaping to the ground, he slung his bow over one shoulder and drew his sword, running towards the fallen troll with blade upraised.

" _Crist faronath!_ Blade of the hunters! "

 With a loud cry he fell upon the beast, slashing at its throat. But his sword glanced off its thick hide and he reeled backwards as the troll staggered to its feet. With one clumsy wave of its arm it flung him across the clearing, his sword clattering to the ground. Furiously Tancamir leapt to his feet and drew his bow, firing quickly at its eyes again. He cursed as all the arrows missed their mark and snatched up his sword.  Blinded by the arrow in its eye, the troll swung aimlessly at him, bellowing with rage. Dodging the troll's blows, he whirled around its ponderous frame, stabbing when he could and hoping that his foe would tire and relax its guard. Already his breath came short, and his sword-arm faltered. Pausing for breath, he ducked a second too late and felt a crushing pain in his right shoulder as the troll's club hit its mark. Falling to the ground, he realised with a sinking heart that a troll was a different kind of quarry altogether than the beasts he was accustomed to hunt. Desperately he drew his bow, and as the creature bore down on him he shot two arrows into its yawning maw. The troll's limbs went limp, and it wavered for a minute before crashing to the ground, dust billowing around its corpse.

Tancamir scrambled back from the body, wincing as he felt blood trickle from his right shoulder. He rose to his feet, breathing unsteadily, and staggered over to lean against a tree. He had felled the troll - but at what cost? The glory of conquest and the thrill of the hunt paled against the fact that he had wasted valuable time here - far too much time. By now he would have been at the lodge, arranging his provisions for the next leg of his journey, if not for this accursed foolishness. And where was Amloth?

He whipped his head around as a rumbling sound in the brush drew nearer. Trolls seldom appeared alone, but were always in the company of one or two others. How had he forgotten? He fled into the forest, desperately hoping that he would not be sighted and that he could find Amloth in time. But he was too late. A roar sounded behind him, and a great crashing through the underbrush meant another troll was in pursuit. He grabbed an overhanging branch, attempting to swing himself up onto it, but gasped at a sharp pain in his shoulder. Brambles tore at his tunic as he sped onwards, attempting to lose the troll by running in confusing paths. As the sounds behind him grew fainter, Tancamir halted for a moment and looked around in desperation. If he had eluded the troll, he had also lost sense of direction completely, and the trees grew too thickly here for him to see the stars. Slowly, he began to grope forwards, hoping to find a clearing where the sky was visible.

A sharp whinny pierced the air. Tancamir froze. Had the beasts found Amloth?  He stumbled forwards, half running, half stooping under the branches. If his horse was gone, so was any hope for out-running any searchers from the Valley. Gritting his teeth, he felt at his shoulder. All the bones were in place, though it was bruised and bleeding. Another neigh sounded closer ahead, and as Tancamir passed a clump of brambles he saw Amloth struggling against a thick rope which a troll had cast around his neck. His horse reared and struck the troll with his hooves, but to no avail. With fumbling hands Tancamir nocked and shot an arrow at the troll, hoping to distract it. The arrow flew wide, and the bow recoiled into his shoulder. With a cry of pain and fury he leapt forwards at the troll, sword hanging limply from his right arm. The creature turned its vile yellow eyes on him and charged. Tancamir stood as if frozen for a long moment, then dashed aside just in time, as the troll crashed into the tree behind him. He gave a sharp whistle, and cried urgently,

"To me, Amloth! Swiftly!"

Amloth burst from his captor's grasp and wheeled towards his master. Tancamir took hold of the saddle, but cursed as his right shoulder gave way under him. He grit his teeth and swung into the saddle. Amloth's chestnut hide was flecked with sweat, and his ears lay flat against his skull. Tancamir bent low to whisper soothing words in his ear, but Amloth would not heed, and tossed his head wildly. Behind them, the troll rose to its feet and lumbered towards them. It roared and brandished its club above its head, and Amloth reared in fright, forelegs pawing the air. With a sickening crunch Tancamir slid to the ground, looking up for one dazed moment as his horse sprang away into the night. He drew a dagger with his left hand and launched it at the troll as it bore down on him. The blade glanced harmlessly off its hide, only infuriating it more. Tancamir took up his bow, but his hand met only air as he reached for another arrow.  Arrows lay strewn about him, but too far away to reach in time. Pain washed over him as he attempted to move his right arm. With one last cry he drew his sword and hacked at the troll's arm with his left hand. Black blood spilled from the wound, and the creature bellowed in anger before swinging its mace at his head. Searing pain lanced through him for an instant before darkness took him, and he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

He awoke to a sharp pain in his right shoulder, and a dim figure looming over him in the half-light before dawn. All around hung the smell of smoke, and another acrid scent he could not place. He seemed to be lying on the ground, upon rough cloth of some sort. In an instant he was alert, and groped with his left hand for the dagger hidden in his right gauntlet. A strong blow to his chest knocked him back, and the shadow above him pinned him to the ground. A weight settled over him as the figure began to pry at his right shoulder, causing a fresh spike of pain. He lashed out with all the strength he could muster. His teeth bit down on a leathery hand reaching towards his neck. Suddenly the weight on his chest lifted. Through a haze of pain, Tancamir saw the dark figure recoil for a moment. He seized a dagger and hurled himself forwards, grunting in satisfaction as the blade met flesh. His foe choked once and stilled underneath him.

Slowly Tancamir propped himself upright using his good arm, biting back a cry of pain as he felt his right arm hanging at an unnatural angle. He felt over it gingerly, but drew back his hand as he felt smooth cloth where he had expected the leather of his hauberk to be. His right arm was encased in linen bandages, and supported by a crude sling tied over his neck. Horror dawned on him as the strong scent of herbs and dried blood issued from the wound on his shoulder. What had he done?

Before him lay the body of a man, garbed in the rough clothes of a woodsman and hunter.  His head lolled to one side, and blood trickled from a wound in his chest. At his belt hung a pouch of herbs, and a greatsword covered in dark blood - trolls' blood. Tancamir shuddered in revulsion. He had repaid this man with death, who had evidently saved him from being slain by trolls. Staggering to his feet, he looked around wildly for his bow and quiver. They lay beside the embers of a dying fire, and the steel of his sword gleamed underneath them. Haltingly he armed himself, hands shaking with fear and self-loathing. Was this what he had become - a murderer, slaying the innocent instead of defending them?

A soft whicker greeted him as he moved towards the fire. He looked up to see Amloth tied to a tree, munching grass contentedly. Guilt overcame him anew as he realised that the man had not only saved his life, but that of his horse as well. He fumbled with one hand at the knot before hoisting himself up onto the saddle. At the sight of two empty bedrolls laid out by the fire, he tugged on the reins and urged Amloth forwards. As if sensing his master's haste, Amloth shot forwards like a hunted beast,  away from the bloodstained hollow where the woodsman's corpse lay. Tancamir breathed raggedly, each jolt of the saddle causing his arm to throb sharply. They must flee before the man's companions returned, and the light of day made pursuit easy.  He glanced upwards. Already the stars were fading. He turned Amloth north and west, and swiftly horse and rider vanished into the gloaming.


	2. Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, another chapter done! Please feel free to submit any criticisms/comments of my work!

Amloth's flanks heaved as they came to the crest of a hill. On the horizon, nestled in a hollow of elm trees, lay a dark shape which Tancamir's weary eyes knew to be the abandoned lodge. He gasped and fell forwards against his horse's neck as Amloth stumbled over a tree-root. Pain shot through his right arm and shoulder. He stroked Amloth's neck with his left hand, whispering hoarsely to him. They were almost there.

They drew up to the entrance of the lodge, a rude building constructed out of logs fitted together in the manner of the Atani who dwelt on the fringes of the forest. Tancamir had made it one of his haunts since discovering it in ruins a year ago. He had stored provisions for his journey here, thinking that it would be out of sight of any pursuers from Imladris. But now fear gripped him as he slid from the saddle and staggered toward the door. More than any search party from Imladris, he feared the companions of the man he had slain mere hours ago. When they returned to find their camp deserted, and their comrade dead, would they look for him here? Tancamir cursed as his right arm jostled in the sling, and fumbled for the door with his left hand.

He drew a breath of relief. His supplies had not been touched, and the lodge was deserted. But he could not stay here, lest the woodmen find him. Leaving Amloth to rest outside, Tancamir slumped against the rough wall. Through his dimming sight he could see the bundle of waybread he had set aside, as well as a pouch of dried meat and a flask of _miruvor_ , all piled neatly against one wall. An extra sheaf of arrows lay on the floor, all fletched with hawk feathers that had come from the mews of Imladris. Cobwebs spread their shadowy tendrils from corner to corner, and for a moment Tancamir was reminded of the tales he had heard  of Nan Dungortheb, where spiders wove their webs of darkness in ages long before he was born.  His head felt heavy, his arm like a weight of lead which flamed with pain every time he moved. Darkness threatened to take him again, as the weariness of the past hours caught up with him. It would be so easy to lie down and let oblivion wash over him, to rest even for a short while and blot out the pain ... His head lolled to one side as his arm began to throb again.

Outside, Amloth gave a nervous whicker and nudged the door open.  Stepping over to his master, the chestnut brought his velvety muzzle to Tancamir's cheek. He blew a whuffing breath, urging Tancamir upright. Tancamir groaned and rested his head against Amloth's muzzle. The look in his horse's liquid brown eyes was one of utter trust. Though his hide was flecked with sweat, Amloth patiently stood in the doorway awaiting his master. With much effort, Tancamir grabbed a fistful of Amloth's chestnut mane and braced himself against the horse's neck. Little eddies of dust swirled around his feet as he staggered upright, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. Once he got to his feet, his head seemed to clear somewhat. Overhead, stars shone through holes in the ceiling like watching eyes.  There was scarcely an hour left before dawn would come, and they must be safely away by then. Motioning Amloth to stay, Tancamir bent to place the spare arrows within his quiver. Slowly, painfully, he fastened the other provisions to Amloth's saddlebags.

 _Haste, haste,_ he repeated to himself. The word drummed through his head as he guided Amloth out of the cabin and shut the door with shaking hands. Setting his jaw firmly, he grasped the saddle and swung himself up onto Amloth's back. _Haste, before they find you._ Tancamir glanced at the stars again, then pressed his heels to his horse's side. Brambles and trees snagged on the loose ends of his grey cloak as they travelled onward. Tancamir wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself and shivered. It was still early spring, and the chill of night seeped into his bones.  It was all he could do to stay upright in the saddle and keep his left hand on the reins. Soon the dense undergrowth and overhanging trees began to thin, and large boulders began to appear scattered among the thinning forest. They had come to the northwest fringes of the forest, beyond which lay the river Mitheithel and the North Downs of Arnor. Tumbled formations of rock dotted the wood, some large enough to form caverns, some only as large as tree-stumps. They rode onwards, always keeping to the edge of the wood, but ever west and north.

He would make for the wild lands on the outskirts of the North Downs, where game was plentiful. The rugged woods would conceal him from unfriendly eyes, and under the sheltering branches of the tall fir-trees he would make his camp each night. Or so he had planned when he had left the Valley of Imladris, in what seemed to be a lifetime ago. Now the first fingers of dawn began to grope across the sky, and the eastern horizon glowed faintly. Tancamir glanced around, hoping to find a place where he and Amloth could safely lie hidden until dusk came again. He had come seldom to this part of the woods around Imadris, preferring to ride to the southwest where game was more plentiful, and sightings of trolls were fewer. A dark shadow loomed in the distance, and Tancamir's hand was halfway to his bow before he realised it was nothing more than a great mass of rock.

The welcome babble of running water met his ears, and he saw that he had come to the bank of a swift stream, still running clear and cold from its source in the Misty Mountains beyond Imladris. The mass of rock butted against a gentle swell in the ground, forming a hill. Amloth lunged forwards toward the clear water, and bent his head to drink. Sharply Tancamir jerked on the reins. To let Amloth drink his fill now, when his sides still heaved from exertion and his nostrils were flared wide, would mean certain injury on the morrow.

"Not now,  Amloth. You must rest a bit before you take your refreshment." With effort he steered Amloth away from the stream and eased him into a walk. He circled the hill curiously, and came to a rocky opening on the other side which seemed to lead into a cave. Cautiously, he drew near to the entrance. His eyes could not pierce the darkness within the cave, but there were no signs of habitation. If this was a troll's den,  or indeed that of any other beast, it had long been deserted. No tracks issued from the cave-mouth, and there were no bones littered about the entrance. It seemed large enough to house himself and Amloth comfortably. After a few more minutes of steady walking, Amloth's breathing had slowed to an easy cadence. Tancamir patted his horse's neck comfortingly and halted by the side of the stream.

"Drink now. You have more than earned your rest." Sliding down from the saddle, Tancamir leaned against his horse heavily before turning to fumble in one of the saddle-bags. He found flint and steel, then bent low to the ground and struck a flame in some fallen twigs. Quickly he drew an unlit torch from his pack and touched to the fire, then held it aloft. He stamped out the flame on the ground, then began to make his way towards the mouth of the cave. The torch cast strange shadows on the walls of the cavern that wavered and danced like living things. Carefully putting one foot in front of the other, he scanned the cave for any sign of foes. The cavern was deserted, as far as he could tell. It stretched further into the hill beyond the reach of the torchlight. By now, he was too weary to care if anything else lurked in the dark, for he had read all the signs like any skilled tracker would and found nothing. Tancamir gave a low whistle and Amloth trotted inside, water still dripping from his nose.  He made a sign for Amloth to stay within the cave, then began to slowly unbuckle his saddlebags. Finally he unfastened Amloth's saddle and laid it on the ground. Tancamir clumsily undid the bridle with his left hand and hung it on a rocky ledge.

The pain in his right shoulder and arm had dulled to a low throb. He felt along his right forearm, wincing when the leather of his gauntlet met open flesh. The woodman had bound his wounds well, he thought guiltily. Strange - he had thought the forearm broken, but it was whole. His left hand travelled to his upper arm, pulling away with a hiss at a sharp twinge in his shoulder. He had merely dislocated the shoulder, then. Tancamir sagged against the wall in relief. He could not fare into the Wild with a broken arm, much less draw the bow to defend himself. With a groan he rolled his right shoulder forwards, and though pain bloomed through his arm he was grateful. It could still be moved, so evidently his rescuer had placed the shoulder back into joint successfully. As dawn crawled over the eastern horizon, Tancamir blew out his torch and slid to the ground. With his back propped up against the cold stone of the cavern wall, he slipped into restfulness, eyes still open and trained on the mouth of the cave.

The shadows of twilight had crept up on the hollow outside the cave when Tancamir returned to wakefulness. Inside, Amloth stood with head lowered, still sleeping. Tancamir blinked groggily and shifted his weight to rest on his left arm. It was still light enough outside that the inside of the cave was no longer completely dark. He gave his right shoulder an experimental  prod, and immediately regretted it as a deep ache flared to life. Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet and looked around. No sign of any life within the cave, save himself and his horse. His feet moved more steadily as he made his way to the mouth of the cave and peered out. His grey eyes glinted with renewed determination. 

He had not yet seen one hundred summers pass, and the blood of youth ran hot within his veins. Already he felt the sinews of his shoulder knitting themselves together, and the wounds on his arm closing over. Soon, he thought with satisfaction, in a matter of days he would be fit to hold the bow again. Then he would fare forth into the wilds of Arnor, giving the lands of Men a wide berth. For it was the wilderness that he loved, where the sound of Oromë's horn echoed in the thunder of waterfalls and the rush of wind among the trees. Where the trees grew dense and verdant, dappling the wood with their shade. Where stag and hind ran wild among the ferns, and one could fare wild and unfettered under the great dome of the heavens. There he would go, seeking solitude and adventure. The wilderness called him - it was in his blood, in the songs of Doriath his mother had sung to him every evening, in the stir of his heart when he surveyed the wood from high in the branches of a mighty tree.

He crept into the dusky stillness, broken only by the far-off song of a thrush and the babble of the stream nearby. Farther upstream, the waters formed a clear pool before rushing downwards over tumbled rocks in a small cataract. Tancamir clambered up the shallow slope to the pool, gladdened by the music of water falling over stone. He knelt beside the stream and bent his left hand to cup a mouthful of water. After he had filled his waterskin, he sank down onto the mossy bank with a contented sigh. He was wounded, but not broken  - harried, but not overcome. Slowly he crept forwards until his face was mirrored in the still water. A haggard visage stared back at him, sandy hair matted and torn, brow stained with blood. Cold, steely grey eyes gazed into his own. They were not the eyes of the boy who had left Imladris, rash and determined to prove himself. They were the eyes of one who has faced death for the first time and come away hardened by the ordeal. The eyes of a warrior, perhaps, but also of a murderer of the innocent.

He looked away in shame, left hand on the dagger hidden in his hauberk. He drew it out, still sticky with blood he had spilled. The blade seemed heavy as lead as he lowered it into the water, watching with morbid fascination as the blood swirled into the water and was borne downstream. Pulling out his slender sword, Tancamir washed away the troll's blood coating its blade. Delicate letters were etched into its gently curved blade, reading _Cúrongrist - Dagnir  Dúath._ Crescent-cleaver, Slayer of Shadow. He smiled grimly. Now it had earned another name: _Dagnir Teryg,_ Slayer of Trolls. Tempered steel glinted in the failing light as he laid both weapons upon the moss. Grimly he reached with one hand for his bow, but found it snarled in the tendrils of his hair.

As a boy, he had delighted to ride with hair unbound through the wood, imagining himself in the following of Lord Oromë on a great hunt. Even as he grew older, he scarcely suffered it to be cut, defiantly wearing it in the simple braids of a Sindarin hunter, and not in the intricate Noldorin fashion of a scholar in training, as his father had wished. Now Tancamir ran his left hand over his hair, matted with sweat and dried blood, and grimaced. His hand wavered for a moment over the hilt of his dagger. Then he snatched it up resolutely. With each tangle of hair that fell severed from his shoulders, he felt the last shreds of his past life disappear. He stared at his reflection. Jagged ends of hair now framed his face, falling nearly to his shoulders. He shook his head once like a hound, sending the loose ends of hair flying in a flaxen blur. With a thrill he tossed his head back and laughed wildly. He was free - unencumbered by the conventions of Imladris, or by the pressuring of his father.

A moment later he looked around, face sobering as he took in the strands of hair scattered upon the bank. He could not afford to be so careless. Painstakingly he bent and gathered every loose bit of hair upon the ground, then shoved them into a hollow in the ground. He buried them in earth and dead leaves, artfully concealing the ground with a tracker's skill. With a sigh he turned toward the stream once more, sheathing his sword and dagger. Tancamir glanced at his blood-stained gauntlets in disgust. He fumbled for the buckles his left gauntlet with his other hand, still bound in a sling. Painstakingly he peeled it off with his teeth and set it by the stream. The right gauntlet was much harder to remove, but he finally managed to loosen the buckles and began to ease it out of the sling. The leather caught on something around his wrist, and Tancamir cursed. His left hand met something smooth and cold looped around his right wrist. After a brief tussle with the gauntlet, it slid off his right hand, revealing a golden bracelet that glinted in the half-light.

Tancamir stared at it for a long while, face pale. Of _all_ the things he could have brought out of Imladris... Intricate gold filigree in the shape of vines wound around his wrist, and the tiny figures of two leaping stags supported a glimmering emerald set in the bracelet's center. It had been a gift from his father, for his fiftieth begetting-day.  Guilt flooded him as he glanced at the bracelet resting so innocently on his wrist. It had never left his wrist since then, even through the tumultuous years when his will clashed with his father's own. His father. Nolomir Turcasanwë, eminent scholar of Imladris and survivor of the ruin of Gondolin. He had named his eldest son Tancamir, _steadfast jewel_  in the High-Elven tongue, hoping that he would carry on his work as a scholar. Tancamir scoffed. He had skill enough in the study of histories and old tales, loving them rather for their tales of heroism than for their academic value. How could his father have failed to realise that he was more his mother's son, the child of green woods and running rivers?

He fingered the bracelet absently. It had been wrought by a jeweller of the Heavenly Arch long ago in Gondolin, gifted to his father for some service. It was for this reason that he wore it, he argued, not because it reminded him of his father in any way. At a sharp _snap_ in the underbrush, he whirled around, dagger in one hand. Amloth trotted towards him, ears pricked in the direction of his master. Tancamir relaxed and put his blade away. Here was one friend more faithful than any he had known in Imladris.

"Eager to be off, are we?" He stroked the horse's muzzle with his left hand. "I think you had better have something to eat first, _mellon._ " Amloth shoved his muzzle into Tancamir's side playfully, then wandered over to a patch of wild grasses growing on the side of the hill. Tancamir looked at the darkening sky and smiled to himself. To the northwest lay the river Mitheithel, and beyond it the rolling downs and fir woods of northern Arnor. They would set out for the river as soon as night fell. By dawn two rivers would lie behind him and his past, and he would fare out into the great unknown. He cracked a smile and shook hair out of his face. Bow at his side, he tramped back into the cave and began preparing for another night's journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Geography:
> 
> The forest that Tancamir is travelling through is obviously the Trollshaws. At this point I headcanon that these woods were sparsely populated, save by the occasional hunter and woodsman. I have chosen to use the term 'Arnor' for all lands west of the Mitheithel (Hoarwell) River, although the Trollshaws evidently were a part of the kingdom of Rhudaur (est. TA 861), which had not been established at this time. Since Arnor was relatively young (having been established 121 years before the beginning of the Third Age), I imagine its inhabitants would mostly keep to the less densely forested areas west of the Mitheithel, which were closer to the major cities of Fornost and Annúminas. The North Downs are not anywhere referenced in Tolkien's works,but I have used the term to refer to the low rolling hills stretching north and east of Fornost Erain. By the early Third Age Fornost would have been a major stronghold and city within the kingdom of Arnor, as it later became the capital of Arthedain after TA 861.
> 
> A bit of First Age history:
> 
> The House of the Heavenly Arch was one of the two houses of archers within the city of Gondolin. Tancamir himself was born early in the Third Age but his father Nolomir was born in Gondolin. Incidentally, that makes Nolomir slightly older than Elrond's father, Ëarendil.
> 
> Nan Dungortheb (the Valley of Dreadful Death) was a valley in Beleriand south of Ered Gorgoroth (the Mountains of Terror) and north of the forest of Doriath. It was infested by the great spider Ungoliant and her vile brood.


	3. The Wild

They rode through that night with little incident, passing like fleeting shadows through the northern fringes of the forest. Already Tancamir felt strength returning to his right shoulder. It would not be long before he could take up his bow again. The stars wheeled overhead in an endless parade, a familiar constant as the lands grew ever stranger. As dawn crept over the peaks of the Hithaeglir, they halted by a stand of trees overshadowing a little hollow. Far off in the distance, he could hear the rushing of the Mitheithel River as it clattered over stony shallows. One day's journey more and he would be in the lands of Men.

Though he and Amloth soon fell into a restful sleep, they awoke late in the afternoon to find sunlight streaming through the branches. Here and there a thrush would sing over the distant murmur of the Mitheithel. The entire wood smelled of growing things and the promise of new life. Tancamir looked upwards at the canopy of young leaves, mouth blooming into a wide smile. Soon there would be no need for haste, once he was several days' journey from Imladris, and he could roam at his leisure over hill and under trees.

"Amloth, what say you to an early start?" Tancamir laughed as he took in the sun, hanging low in the sky. "Or, perhaps a late one." Now that they were farther from the Valley, he deemed it safe to travel by day.

The handsome chestnut flicked his ears intelligently in Tancamir's direction and nosed at his saddle lying on the ground. Tancamir swatted him on the neck.

"Very well, but there is no need to be hasty, _mellon._ It takes a while longer to saddle you with only one hand." Tancamir grimaced slightly as he hefted the saddle with his left hand and slung it over Amloth's back. In a matter of moments his gear was packed again, and all signs of their camp concealed. Whistling a few bars of his favourite hunting-song, he mounted Amloth and set out north and west for the Mitheithel.

It was not difficult to find the  eastern bank of the Mitheithel, for the river flowed noisily and Tancamir had only to follow the sound of rushing water. Brambles and vines overhung the riverbanks, which for the most part were raised above the riverbed by walls of stone a few paces high. The river itself was shallow, but there was no place for a horse and rider to cross. After spending the better part of an hour nosing along the bank for an opening, they found a pebbly beach where the river bent in a wide swath round a stand of beech trees. They forded the stream easily, scrambling up the steep western bank into the woods of northeastern Arnor.

That evening, Tancamir felt sufficiently at ease to light a small fire, which drove out the chill from his dampened clothes and bedding. He stared into the flames,  suddenly overcome by moodiness. Idly he wondered if his father had sent out any search parties from Imladris. Probably not - in recent years Tancamir had taken to leaving on hunting trips that lasted a fortnight or more. By the time he was missed, he would be far away from Imladris. With a snort, he thought of his father, the strait-laced scholar, humbling himself before the captain of the Guard and asking that a search be made for his wayward son. Nolomir would sooner burn the entirety of his mathematical treatises than allow his image among the residents of Imladris to be tarnished so. But his mother - he frowned into the embers of the fire. Tinuilos was her name, and she was as gentle and soft-spoken as his father was overbearing and strict. Her voice held the golden music of Lórien and the whispered songs of Doriath which her own mother had taught her.

If there was one thing that could have kept him from leaving, it would have been his mother, who had told him tales of the wild woods of Doriath and the milder forests of Lórien - of the Great Hunter Oromë and his mighty steed Nahar, and the wide lands through which they fared. He thought of his two younger sisters, Uilossiel and Tinwen, who were as different as night and day. Uilossiel he loved, yet envied, for with her midnight-black hair and studious ways she was the perfect picture of her father. Yet she adored her older brother and would always listen with rapt attention to his accounts of recent hunting-trips, or peer at him through the hedge with wide eyes when he sparred with his friends. Tinwen was not yet halfway to her majority, but already a tyrannical young beauty with long flaxen hair. Tancamir tossed his shorn hair out of his eyes with a snort. He would be glad to be rid of her presence, for sure.

There was no returning to Imladris for him, stained as he was with the blood of his rescuer. It would be too dangerous to double back along the road towards Imladris and risk being confronted by more woodsmen. He shivered, though the night was young and not yet chill. There was no place for him to go but forwards - for he would never look back, bitter though the parting might be. Absently he fingered the golden bracelet hung on his right hand. Let that be the only reminder he carried of his former home. All else, he must throw to the wind.

For the next few days Tancamir and Amloth travelled from dawn till dusk, making at a leisurely but still steady pace for the North Downs of Arnor. The woods on the western bank of the Mitheithel gave way to plains covered only with long, waving grasses. They had come to the lands around the Weather Hills, or so the Atani called them. Always careful to elude the sight of Men, Tancamir gazed on the tall, bare hills which marched north and west toward the fortress of Amon Sûl. It was a mighty watchtower, standing proud and bleak upon a high hill. It was far too distant for even his elven-sight to distinguish any figures standing upon the tower, but he imagined that its ramparts were bristling with men of Arnor, valiant descendants of the Faithful from Númenor. The history of the Dúnedain had fascinated him as a youth. How did these Atani, mortal and brief though they be, manage to escape the drowning of an entire continent and rebuild their kingdoms, proud and steadfast, upon strange shores? And why must the Eldar, though mightier and more long-lived, be left to dwindle in obscurity until only a whisper remained of their memory?  He had no more time to ponder such things, as the allure of the Wild drove him farther north, into rugged lands where trees grew seldom, save for a few stunted pines. These lands were sparsely populated by man or beast, where the bleak hills marched toward the summit of Amon Sûl.

It was five days since his encounter with the trolls when he finally unwrapped the sling on his right arm. He had no reason to use his bow in the past days of travel, as his supplies were still adequate and the wild beasts seemed charmed by the calmness of spring. All the same, he had felt incomplete without it. A fierce thrill ran through him as he hefted the smooth yew bow in his hands. Lovingly he ran his fingers over the surface that he himself had carved and polished. _Cúringil_ was inscribed along its curve, in both the _Cirth_ of Doriath and the _tengwar_  of Beleriand.  Bow of the Chill Spark, he had named it, echoing the name of _Ringil_ , the blade of High King Fingolfin. It was strange, he reflected, to be caught between two worlds as the child of both Gondolin and Lórien. While nothing drove him to rage more than the tale of the ruin of Doriath and the kinslaying by the havens of Sirion, he nonetheless read of the kings of the Noldor with mingled pity and admiration. He admired their courage in the face of certain doom, of the fierceness with which they defended their homes and their Oath. Shaking his hair out of his eyes, he drew an arrow and nocked it to the string, revelling in the familiar pose and tension of the bow.

He loosed a few arrows at the gnarled bole of a dead pine tree.  All tension melted from his shoulders at the sound of the bowstring singing near his ear and the whizz of the arrows speeding toward their target. He frowned as one arrow veered past the tree, and his shoulder twinged. His skill would not be regained in a day, and rest would help it along faster than over-taxing himself. With a sharp whistle to Amloth, who had been standing by obediently, he swung  into the saddle and was off again, turning north toward the distant fir woods on the horizon.

It was a scant five days' journey, travelling light and swiftly, until the line of dark green resolved itself into dense woods of evergreen trees. At times, Tancamir would dismount and lead Amloth through the wood, stopping every so often to look upwards at the tall, straight trees that stretched like pillars to the sky. A reverent hush lay over the forests in the morning, and soft golden light filtered through the branches, which arched upwards like the peaked roof of a great palace. Deer gazed shyly out of the tall ferns at their passing, and birds of a sort Tancamir had never seen before roosted in the trees. But he stayed his bow. The _lembas_  and dried meat he had packed would last them for several days more, and he took no delight in hunting simply for sport. It was enough to ride through the unfamiliar woods and breathe the fresh air.

Freedom was at once delightful and bewildering. The spring weather was golden and hospitable, even in the northern woods of Arnor, and he was perfectly content with making his camp at night under the stars, taking shelter under the branches of a low-growing fir or under a rocky ledge. Though he had nearly memorised the lay of the lands beyond Imladris,  he found himself consulting his map more often in the lazy evenings spent by the fire, stretched out against Amloth's resting side.  It was one thing to see shapes and lines laid out on parchment - it was another to relate them to the rivers and hills he had ridden past, all so vividly real. With a sigh he tucked the map into his pocket. He remembered the day his sister Uilossiel had given it to him, when she had barely passed half her majority. Her peaked, white face, hair bound in the braids of a scholar-in-training, flashed before him unbidden. He would miss teasing her, and telling her fantastical stories of his adventures. He grinned as he recalled her strangely serious demeanor, and the little ways she twitched her fingers or twirled her hair. She had pressed the map of Eriador into his hand, smiling gravely in that odd manner of hers.

"It will help you find your way," she had said. "For no matter how far you wander, Tyelco, I know it will bring you back home."

 _Tyelco._ It had been a joke between the two of them, that name. His mother had given him the name _Tyelcóre,_ Hasty Heart in the High-Elven tongue forbidden in Doriath, yet still spoken in Lórien. And Uilossiel, scholar that she was, had been quick to draw comparisons between him and the third son of Fëanor, Turcafinwë Tyelcormo,  Celegorm in the tongue of the Sindar. Brash, quick to anger, a lover of forests and the hunt - he had  grudgingly seen the similarity and borne her teasing.

But now, as the leagues grew ever greater between himself and Imladris, he found that the sight of new lands began to wash away the last vestiges of homesickness. The stronghold of Fornost Erain, North-Fortress of the Kings,  stood proudly amid the rolling hills of the North Downs. From atop the fir-clad heights he could descry its square towers and proud battlements, clothed in shining white stone. He began to see the rising smoke of villages along the outskirts of the wood.  These he avoided, riding far to the north where the woodsmen dared not venture, and no clatter of wheels or song of axe marred the stillness of the forest. By now he had only a vague idea of where he would travel after passing through the North Downs. He had not given it much thought, but his provisions were running low and he meant to replenish them on the hunt.

His thoughts turned to the woods around Lake Nenuial. Along the southern shore of the lake the Dúnedain had built their great city Annúminas, the proud capital of Arnor, the North Kingdom. But the Atani there were elf-friends, and he had heard tales from others in Imladris of the dense forests of the northern shore, and the plentiful game to be found there. For five days he rode west at a leisurely pace, snaring the occasional pheasant or rabbit. The dim peaks of the Emyn Uial, the Hills of Twilight, drew ever closer as the land grew wilder and less inhabited. Finally he caught sight of Lake Nenuial spread out before him like a glassy mirror. The sun was setting as he made camp on a rugged hill overlooking the water. For a moment he gazed westward, lost in the glory of scarlet and gold as the flaming vessel of Anor sank below the horizon. The hills flamed with colour, their hues echoed in the still waters of Nenuial. Far to the south the ramparts of Annúminas glowed proudly, and the city gleamed like a star set upon the shore. As the light faded, so also did the fire in the sky, as the grey and violet colours of dusk crept over the Emyn Uial. It was still, so still, that Tancamir dared not make a sound. He gazed silently on the twilit waters as the first stars began to glimmer reflected in its depths.

Had the first Eldar felt more wonder than he, when they woke by the starlit meres of Cuiviénen? In breathless awe, he looked up towards the Emyn Uial and saw a bright star glimmering on the horizon. _Gil -estel._ Star of Hope, winged ship of Ëarendil lit by the hallowed radiance of a Silmaril. Reverently he bowed his head, whispering a short prayer to Elbereth, who had set the stars in their courses before even Isil and Anor sailed the sky. There must be hope for him to make a new life, far from the confines of Imladris. He gazed westwards, and thought of lands beyond the Emyn Uial - of the fair woods of Lindon beyond the river Lhûn. At the mouth of the Lhûn stood Mithlond, last haven of the Eldar beside the Sundering Seas. In that moment he resolved to fare westward, beyond the Hills of Twilight, enchanting though they were, and seek the lands of Lindon. He would roam the woods beside Lake Nenuial for a season, but his path lay west toward Lindon - the Land of Song, last vestige of the lands of Beleriand that now lay broken beneath the sea.

Amloth stamped at the ground and whickered softly, and the moment was broken. Tancamir turned to his horse, rolling his eyes slightly.

"What do you want now, Amloth? A good fire is before us, and many days of hunting in the wilderness are ahead." He patted his horse's flanks and secured his tether to a nearby tree. "And to-morrow I shall see if you are still any good at the chase, for you have gone fat and lazy with all this walking."

He busied himself with banking the fire and unpacking a few of his belongings. He laid his bow Cúringil and his quiver on the ground, within arm's reach of his resting place. Dagger tucked under his pillow, Cúrongrist sheathed and ready at his side, he stretched out his bedroll beside the embers of the fire. He folded both hands behind his head, staring contentedly at the stars. The lands beyond Imladris were wilder and more wonderful than he could ever have dreamed. Slowly horse and master slipped into restful slumber as the stars wheeled above the mirrored waters of Nenuial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've played hard and fast with travelling times here, but not too reckessly I hope. According to the Tale of Years in the Appendix to The Return of the King, it took the Fellowship approximately fourteen days to travel from Bree to Imladris. Tancamir is an Elf, and travelling alone with light supplies so I hope it is not too unrealistic for him to cover a simliar distance from Imladris to the North Downs in around ten days.
> 
> The High-Elven tongue is obviously Quenya, and the Grey-Elven is Sindarin. Tancamir uses the Quenya term 'Atani' interchangeably with 'Men.'


	4. The Land of Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After spending some time around Lake Nenuial, Tancamir travels west over the river Lhûn and comes to Lindon, the Land of Song.

Morning dawned clear and bright, with the promise of a radiant spring day. Tancamir set out early for the wooded slopes on the northern shore of the lake. The woods here seemed wider than the narrow confines of the forests near Imladris.  Evergreen forests stretched north and west, a seemingly limitless sea of living green. Sunlight glimmered upon Amloth's chestnut hide, illuminating the white star upon his forehead.

Tancamir smiled fondly, remembering how he had raised Amloth from when he was a foal in Imladris. There were still those in the stables of Imladris who knew of the breeding of strong and beautiful horses. Many of these, including the chief groom, had come from the lands of Hithlum. There the steeds of the cavalry of Nolofinwë had run swift and proud, horses whose sires had been borne on ship from Valinor by the host of Fëanor. Tancamir liked to imagine that Amloth had some distant kinship with one of them, though it could not be proven. For the proud arch of his neck and the white star that he bore so proudly upon his forehead, he had given him the name Amloth - _Crest,_  or literally ' _Helm-flower'_  in the Grey-Elven tongue.

Amloth carried his master with youthful delight through the woods, now leaping fallen logs with the grace of a deer, now fording streams with thundering hooves. Tancamir could not remember a time when he had been so carefree and content. Gleefully he sighted a stag and pursued it through the firs, pausing at last in triumph when his arrows brought it down near a streamlet. The roast venison, as well as some berries and _lembas,_ made an evening repast fit for a king, in his estimation. He would salt and dry the rest of the meat in the way his mother had taught him, and keep it for the road ahead.

He spent the better part of a fortnight wandering the woods near Nenuial, camping where he wished and revelling in the stark newness of the land. Every evening, the sunset over the lake was a new wonder to behold, and he never tired of watching the stars appear one by one in the dim violet haze of twilight. And with each passing day, the memories of his old life grew dimmer until he thought of himself no more as Tancamir Tyelcóre of Imladris, but Cúrandir, the Wandering Bow.

 _Cúrandir -_ It sounded right on the tongue, he thought, and would be a convenient name to give to others which he met on the road. Though the spring was young, and had yet to give way to the golden days that presaged the immediate coming of summer, he did not put away all thoughts of the future. He could not go on in the Wild indefinitely, pleasant though it was. It would be good to find another settlement where he could pass the winter. His thoughts often turned westward, to the land of Lindon beyond the Emyn Uial, over which the star of Ëarendil rose at dusk. There dwelt the last remnant of the Falathrim of Beleriand, and many Noldor and Sindar also. It would not be unpleasant to live there, he thought, and he might even find a place to call home.

And so he set out westwards again, provisions replenished by the plentiful game he had found in the Emyn Uial. The lands west of the Emyn Uial were less densely forested, fir woods giving way to gentle plains of grass and low shrubbery, with a few trees dotted throughout. The land began to become more marshy as they drew closer to the River Lhûn. Three days after setting out from Nenuial, they came to the river, which flowed wide and deep as its mouth widened to meet the Gulf of Lhûn. Deep growths of reeds and rushes fringed its banks, where a multitude of waterfowl dwelt. A flock of swans rushed upwards from the reeds, trumpeting in indignation as horse and rider passed. The swans beat their wings and wheeled upwards, flying west toward the wilder lands of Forlindon, which bordered the Gulf to the north.

Lindon was aptly named, he thought, as he and Amloth forded the Lhûn and travelled west. Dense forests of fir and spruce grew upon the heights of the Ered Luin. The lower forests were a mixture of evergreen and leafy trees, and delicate ferns unravelled their fronds below the shade of beech and rowan. All around was a murmur that he could only call the music of nature - whether the distant sigh of waves upon the shore, the fluttering of leaves in the trees, the lyrical piping of birds - all a reflection of the Great Song that ran through every thing upon Arda and gave it being. This was what he had been seeking, he realised with a thrill. His entire being burst into song upon seeing the wild lands stretching farther than his elven eyes could reach, and the shores of white sand where waves foamed and crashed. For many days he and Amloth made the Wild their home,  and the swaying beeches of Lindon their roof at night, through which the white stars shone like gems.

This morning Tancamir was crouched behind a beech tree, eyes trained on a slight rustling in the clearing ahead. He kept a firm grip on the bowstring as a stag emerged from the underbrush. A magnificent pair of antlers crowned its head, and the glossy chestnut fur on its flanks rippled in the sunlight. A feline smile spread across Tancamir's face. Here was a prize worthy of Lord Oromë himself.  In an instant, the stag fell to the ground, shot through the throat. Tancamir strode forward, dagger in hand. After hauling it back to his camp, he would begin the laborious work of skinning it, and preserving the meat to last on the road.

Frowning, he bent to examine the stag's shapely neck. He had fired only one arrow, but two were embedded in its throat. The other arrow was fletched with white feathers, and bore a strange device resembling waves carved upon its shaft. Just as he began to pull it out, a branch creaked overhead. There was a light footfall and the sound of merry laughter as a young _ellon_ sprang down from his perch in a nearby tree.

"Just where do you think you are taking that deer?" He quirked an eyebrow at Tancamir. "You are either very brave or very foolish, _randír._ This is the first time a stranger has dared to take my quarry out from under my very nose."

Tancamir scowled at the newcomer. "My _sincerest_ apologies, but I was under the impression that this deer was _my_ property. I shot it down not a few moments ago, as I am sure you saw." He produced one of his arrows from his quiver, holding it up to the identical arrow lodged in the stag's neck.

A curious expression stole over the stranger's face for a moment. Then he threw back his head and began to laugh uncontrollably, until his whole frame shook. Tancamir glanced at him critically. A finely carved longbow was slung across his back, as well as a strange-looking quiver made of a pale white material. A pattern of crested waves ran along the edges of his cloak, and was echoed in the leather tooling of his gauntlets. He must be one of the Falathrim, then. The young stranger's silvery-fair hair fell unbound to his waist, fluttering about with every musical laugh. Tancamir curled his lip in distaste. Who did this silly boy think he was, prancing about in the woods as if for some festival?

"Why - why we must have shot nearly at the same instant, then! What a strange coincidence, ha!" The youth glanced once at Tancamir's confused face, then doubled over with laughter again.  Slowly his mirth subsided and he took a step closer.

"You must be a very fine archer indeed, for I did not see or hear you coming near until you leapt out from behind that bush. I must say, you gave me quite the surprise, for I was hunting for deer, not for strangers in the wood."

Extending his hand, he bowed gracefully. "But where are my manners? I am Falasgil son of Glorengil, formerly of Mithlond. And what might be your name, stranger of the lucky shot?" His sea-blue eyes twinkled merrily.

Tancamir stuttered for a minute, eyeing Falasgil dubiously.

"I am called Cúrandir," he said bluntly. "Though I cannot see why that is any of your concern. Hand over the deer and I will not trouble you more." He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. "I hate to ruin your sport, youngling, but you should be more careful where you tread in these woods," he snapped.

Falasgil regarded him with a slightly miffed air. "Who are you calling youngling? It has been five summers since I came of age. Why, you hardly seem of age yourself! " He drew an arrow out of his quiver and twirled it playfully in one hand. "But there is no need for quarrel, Cúrandir. I obviously shot first, so the stag belongs to me." He nodded at the deer, eyes twinkling as he glanced at the two arrows stuck in its neck.

Tancamir glared at Falasgil, eyes flashing. "I think not. Someone like you could hardly hit the side of a tree at fifty paces, let alone a deer. " He stepped between Falasgil and the stag, resting a warning hand on his bow. "Let the better archer have the deer. Do you see that tree there?" He pointed in the direction of a birch some sixty paces away. The trunk forked some distance above the ground, leaving a narrow space barely two fingers wide between the two main branches of the tree.

Falasgil glanced over at the tree and laughed, a silvery, musical sound which set Tancamir's nerves on edge. "I could hit either trunk blindfolded, my hot-headed friend. Do you really think you have a chance of besting me?"

"Not that tree. The one behind it," Tancamir snapped. Forty paces behind the birch tree, a slender beech sapling stood. It was scarcely a hand's breadth wide, and on the side facing them was a small round scar where a branch had fallen off. "Whoever can shoot through the fork of the birch tree and hit closest to the centre of that scar wins the deer." He motioned for Falasgil to shoot first.

"Ha, you seem to have little confidence in yourself if you pick such an easy target," Falasgil quipped. But his brow was furrowed in concentration as he nocked one of his white-fletched arrows to his bow. The arrow sped through the fork of the first tree and stuck in the trunk of the sapling beyond.

"Not bad," whistled Tancamir nonchalantly. Falasgil's arrow had hit slightly to the left of the target. It would be a difficult shot to top, he admitted to himself.  He hefted Cúringil in one hand, eyeing the narrow slit between the branches of the birch tree. He loosed an arrow and watched with satisfaction as it struck the centre of the target,  barely a finger's width away from Falasgil's shot.

"There, you can see with your own eyes that I have won the deer," Tancamir said. He paused for a moment, then muttered, "Though I must admit that not many would have been able to make such a fine shot as yours."

"Ah, ah, ah! That is not how we do things in Lindon, my hasty young friend," Falasgil admonished, wagging a finger in Tancamir's direction. Though he had lost the match, he seemed to be as full of high spirits as ever, and blithely twirled a lock of his hair with one slender hand. "A single match can be lost or won by a mere caprice of chance. Even the best archer has his bad days. So I say the deer goes to he who can shoot the best out of three, and that was only the first."

"Very well then," Tancamir said, beginning to be amused by Falasgil's cavalier manner. "You may choose the next target."

"Do you see that rowan tree upon that hillock? Ah, how beautiful are the white blossoms of rowan in the spring!" Falasgil beamed. "That  bough, over there, has but one cluster of flowers hanging from its end. The next match goes to the one who can sever it from the tree. You may draw first, as winner of the previous match."

Tancamir turned to his right, and peered into the wood. By his estimation, the tree stood roughly nine score paces away, nearly double the distance of the previous round. The white flowers hung by a thin stem from a lone branch hanging at eye level above the ground. He was not sure if this Falasgil was delusional, or truly a talented archer. Shaking a loose end of hair out of his face, he fitted an arrow to his bow. He had shot deer at distances greater than this, but his brow furrowed slightly.  He had always been known among his comrades for the force and velocity of his arrows, and not his accuracy at long range. His last shot had only driven into the centre of the target by sheer force of will and a lucky draw. Nonetheless, he squared his shoulders, aimed for the swaying bunch of rowan flowers, and fired.

He let out a disappointed breath as the fletching of the his arrow brushed the thin stem and passed harmlessly by. He wondered if Falasgil could at least match his shot - it was not an easy target he had picked. What if this match ended in a draw? But Falasgil had been gazing resolutely forward, all trace of frivolity gone from his face. With fluid grace he drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, sea-blue eyes trained on the rowan tree.

As if in slow motion Tancamir watched the arrow fly through the clearing and sever the bunch of flowers from the branch. The cluster of blossoms floated to the ground gracefully, like a swan's feather on the wind. He sucked in a breath, winded by astonishment. There was certainly more to Falasgil than met the eye. Falasgil threw up his bow into the air with a whoop, caught it deftly, and sprinted forward towards his fallen arrow. He returned with the bunch of flowers stuck jauntily in his hair, and a wide smile on his face.

"I would like to see you top that," he said good-naturedly. He seemed to be genuinely happy at the turn their competition had taken, and not flaunting his own victory. Tancamir nodded curtly.

"It has been years since I met someone that was more than my equal with the bow," he admitted.

"I was about to say the same," Falasgil said with a smile, the white flowers in his hair bobbing with every word. "Now you may choose the next target." He stepped back in a flourish of white and silver.

Tancamir stood for a while, scanning the woods around the clearing for a decent target. There must be some way to throw Falasgil off his guard and shake that calm assurance that held him when he stepped up to shoot. A devious smile crept over his face as he took a few steps forward.

The clearing where they had shot down the deer was rather large, and a small stream ran through it. Nearly six score paces away stood a lone willow, which bent its fringed arms toward the water. Its hanging branches whispered in the gentle breeze that had begun to blow from the sea. Tancamir smirked. With the extra wind, and the branches partially obscuring the view of the tree's trunk, it would make a perfect mark for the next round.

"As you seem to be so fond of shooting down slender stems, Falasgil, the next match will go to the shot that does _not_ sever any of the hanging willow-stems from the tree, and hits closest to that mark upon the trunk. Do you see it?" Falasgil nodded, but his face looked slightly troubled as he peered at the swaying branches.

"There is a wind from the sea, and one cannot gain a clear view of the trunk from here," he muttered.

"I have chosen, and may the best archer win," Tancamir replied. "You may shoot first."

Falasgil bit his lip, then fitted a swan-fletched arrow to his bow again. He waited until the wind blew the branches to one side, leaving a gap in the swaying curtain of willow-stems that veiled the trunk of the tree. Then he let fly an arrow that flew deftly past the willow-stems and struck the mark dead centre. Tancamir's eyes flashed.

"Do not be so sure of victory, Falasgil," he said as he hefted Cúringil in one hand and took aim. His arrow sped through the swaying willow-stems, driven by the greater force of his bow-arm. With a hissing sound its tempered iron head clove through Falasgil's arrow, splitting it neatly down the centre. Both archers stared at the two arrows for several moments. Finally Falasgil spoke.

"It is ... a draw. But _ai_ , I have never seen an arrow split before. You shot marvellously." He gave Tancamir a good-natured grin, then extended one hand in salute. "I say we divide the stag, then. I will let you keep the antlers as a trophy, since I have not had such fine competition in a long while."

Tancamir shook his head. "Where would I have room to put such a trophy?" he asked with a wry smile. "It will only be an extra weight on the road. And travellers might mistake my horse for a deer if I began carting that around on horseback. Take the trophy for yourself, Falasgil. I doubt if I have ever met a finer archer than you."

"Ha, and I would say the same," Falasgil beamed. "I would not lose the company of such a worthy opponent so easily, Cúrandir. Come sup with me tonight. I have made my camp in a most convenient spot by a stream, where we can gut the  deer and divide it among ourselves. And then I will show you the best place to gather herbs, and how to preserve the venison with salt fresh from the Great Sea, as we do here in Lindon."  

A wide smile spread slowly across Tancamir's face as he saw the youthful delight in Falasgil's face. It would be good to have a companion, after so many days alone in the Wild with only Amloth at his side.

"You make an offer that is hard to refuse, Falasgil." He gave a low whistle, and moments later Amloth trotted out into the clearing. Tancamir stroked the white star upon his horse's forehead affectionately. "This is Amloth, Falasgil. I suppose we will ask him to help us bear the deer toward your camp?"

" _Mae govannen,_ Amloth," Falasgil said gravely, taking out a carrot from his pack and offering it to the horse. Amloth sniffed it curiously, then ate it with relish. Falasgil laughed. "I have left my horse Limros wandering the meadows near my camp. But he will be glad to meet a new friend, I am sure."

Together they loaded the deer onto Amloth's back, and set out westward through the wood to Falasgil's camp. As they turned away from the sunlit clearing, Tancamir could not help smiling to himself at the thought that he had found a worthy companion in his wanderings, and that he would have someone to match skill with skill at long last.


	5. Fireside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two hunters talk by the fireside, and a friendship is born.

A fire crackled merrily before Falasgil and Cúrandir as they ate in companionable silence. The summer day was drawing to a lazy close, light falling honeyed and golden through the whispering leaves of beech and elm surrounding their camp.  The low murmur of the nearby stream mingled with the distant music of waves upon the shore. A little ways aside, Amloth and Limros grazed contentedly on the lush grasses which sprang up beside the stream. Falasgil took one last bite of his roast venison, and grinned at Cúrandir.

"So, what brings you to Lindon? You do not look like you are from here." He adjusted the spray of rowan flowers in his hair, which hung at a rakish angle over his left ear. "At least you do not seem to be much older than I, but I have never seen you among the other youths of Mithlond. And your bow-arm .... you do not shoot as the archers of the Falathrim do, that is for sure."

Cúrandir shrugged, glancing at the clear blue sky overhead. "It is true that I do not hail from Lindon, though I do not see how that is any of your business. I learned archery in Imladris, from a Noldo who had fought in the defence of Eregion. "

Falasgil leaned forwards, a conspiratorial glint in his blue eyes. "Oh? Imladris is a long ways off from Lindon. You and your bow must have found plenty of adventure on the road, Cúrandir. Would you mind telling one or two of them to a poor shore-bound son of Lindon?"

Cúrandir stared at him with an unreadable expression. Why would he want to relive the first days of hardship and terror that had accompanied his flight from Imladris, or remind himself of the innocent blood that stained his hands? There was no sound save the crackling of the flames and the music of the stream for a long time, as Cúrandir dropped his gaze moodily to the embers of the fire.

He laughed drily. "There is not much worth telling. I am not sure if hunting stag and boar around the hills of Nenuial counts as adventure."

Falasgil gave him an incredulous look. "You have come all the way from Imladris just to _hunt_? A poor hunter you would be, if you have truly met nothing of interest on the way here."

Cúrandir frowned for a moment, hand straying to the hilt of his sword. A feral grin flashed across his face. "Well, Falasgil, as good a shot as you are, I am not sure if you can claim to have felled a troll, can you? "

Falasgil laughed, eyes gleaming. "A troll? That is sport indeed! Surely you jest, for I hear that neither hide nor hair has been seen of the beasts since the past Age. And definitely not near Lake Nenuial, I would hope." He leaned forwards eagerly, eyes fixed on Cúrandir. "Tell me more."

"The lands north of Imladris have long been the haunt of the miserable creatures," Cúrandir said. "They were driven back to their caves in the Hithaeglir after the war of the Last Alliance, but now they venture southwards from the mountains, even unto the borders of the lands around Imladris. I came across two or three of them as I was riding north and west from the Bruinen. "

He drew his sword, turning it over contemplatively in the fading light. "A troll on its own is no match for a few carefully aimed arrows and a deftly wielded blade. I had sighted one, and thinking it alone had decided to shoot at it from a nearby tree. It all happened so quickly - no sooner had I slain one than the second came charging at me, and my horse had fled. I barely escaped with my life."

"But you managed to kill one of them? _Ai,_ that is a feat worthy of song, I say. " Falasgil's eyes flickered to the curved blade in Cúrandir's hands. "That is a fine sword. You ought to have something like _Dagnir Teryg_ etched upon the blade, you know. We have not had more than the occasional orc patrol on the outskirts of Lindon since the Last Alliance. "

Cúrandir chuckled drily. " _Cúrongrist,_  my sword is called. Perhaps I will take your advice - _Cúrongrist, Slayer of Trolls_ does not sound so ill. But that is hardly practical out of doors, where there is not a decent forge to be found. " He slid Cúrongrist back into its scabbard and looked up at Falasgil, a rare smile playing across his angular features. "Now let me ask you - what brings you to the woods of Forlindon?"

Falasgil's clear laughter rang like bells in the deepening dusk. "Why, I came here to hunt, just as you apparently have. Game is more plentiful in the autumn, it is true, but I intend to stay here and wander the woods the whole summer long. There is nothing like the woods  of Lindon in the summer, Cúrandir. Ah, the sun upon the beech groves, and the sound of waves upon the strand! The very air is thick with music and with life. I can think of no better place in Arda to be." He sighed contentedly.

"You would make quite a decent poet, Falasgil," Cúrandir said with a short laugh. "I quite envy you - have you no other duties than to wander the wood and make merry the whole summer long?"

At these words, Falasgil drooped slightly, shapely lips curving into a frown. "I have plenty of duties awaiting me in the autumn, back in Mithlond. I have enlisted in the Guard, as an archer, and our training begins at the end of summer. But I have the whole summer ahead of me, and I intend to make the most of it." He grinned roguishly. "There are worse ways to spend one's last summer as a civilian, I would wager."

"I see no reason to look upon taking up arms to defend one's homeland with apprehension," Cúrandir  said bluntly. "It is something I would have greatly wished, had I been allowed it. "

"Allowed?" Falasgil looked at him incredulously. Then understanding seemed to dawn upon his face and he nodded in a sage manner. "Parents, I suppose. That is something I have never quite had to deal with - you see, I have lived with my older sister in Mithlond for as long as I can remember."

Cúrandir  regarded Falasgil with a raised brow. "And she is perfectly agreeable to you whiling away the summer in the woods of Forlindon, rather than preparing for your enlistment?"

"Oh, it has always been a manner of habit in our household for one of us to spend a few weeks hunting up in Forlindon. Usually my sister's husband Súlrohir and I go together, but he is busy this year. So I have begged leave of Ningloriel to make this into a holiday of sorts. And so far, I am enjoying it very much.  A last hurrah before I join the ranks of the Guard!" He tossed a bone into the fire. With a grin, he looked up at the darkening sky.

"Already Anor sets in the West. What say you to a bit of riding, before we make camp for the night? I am taking Limros to the shore, which is not that far off. " Dusting off his hands, Falasgil stood up and stretched. "You can come along, if you like. I think we ought to do something relaxing, after all that skinning and carving."

They had gutted and skinned the stag that afternoon. It was messy work and had occupied the greater part of their day. They had taken great care to preserve the antlers to be mounted as a trophy, though they still could not agree whose property the trophy would become. Cúrandir roasted some of the venison for the evening meal, but Falasgil had saved the rest, wrapping it up in parcels with large, broad leaves which Cúrandir did not recognize. After they had finished, Falasgil had nimbly scaled a nearby tree and secured the venison in the fork between two branches, high above the ground where no prowling beasts could reach it. Now, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, Falasgil cast a quick glance around the camp to make sure all was in order. Cúrandir looked on with amusement as Falasgil made a circuit of their location, an intent expression of concentration on his face. He seemed to be mentally checking off a list of tasks as he banked the fire, re-arranged several bags of provisions, and finally slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder.

"Where are we going?" asked Cúrandir. "And are you sure it is wise to leave the camp like this?"

Falasgil waved his hand dismissively. "It will be fine - the most we have to fear in this land is wolves, perhaps, and the venison is safely out of their reach. Orcs have not been seen in Forlindon since the Last Alliance, and that was before I was even born."

A handsome dapple-grey horse neighed in greeting as Falasgil approached. Falasgil flicked a lock of his mane playfully and patted his neck. "Take us to the shore, Limros. And make sure to show Amloth and his master here the way - they seem to be strangers in these parts."

Amloth whinnied happily as he saw Cúrandir approach. Eagerly he nosed his master's hand and pawed at the ground. "No, Amloth, it is not the season for apples," Cúrandir laughed. "Keep your wits about you, and do not stray far from Falasgil and Limros."

Falasgil took hold of a handful of his horse's foam-white mane and swung himself onto Limros' back.  He rode without saddle or bridle, the picture of understated elegance as he sat astride his dapple-grey horse. Cúrandir quirked an eyebrow, then set aside the saddle he had been holding. Though he preferred a light saddle for travel, he was no stranger to riding without one either.   _So, Falasgil, you ride bareback?_  he mused. _Challenge accepted._   With a grin he mounted Amloth and urged him forwards.. They rode in silence, the dusk falling all around them until the light of the setting sun could be seen in the west.

Cúrandir found himself smiling, for some reason he could not place, and began humming an old hunting-song under his breath. Amloth's ears flickered back and forth, as if he too shared his master's merriment. It took little to guide the chestnut horse, as he followed Falasgil and Limros with steady pace down the winding path. Now the music of the waves grew louder, and Cúrandir felt a thrum of anticipation as the roar of the ocean echoed through the trees. He had heard tales of the Great Sea, and the strength with which it called to all Eldar. What would it be like to see it for himself?

Rocky slopes gave way to sandy banks as they rode on. As they emerged from the last fringes of  forest, the entire shore lay open before them  -  a vast expanse of dusky sand, crowned with surging waves to the west. The setting sun turned the waves to gold and crimson, and gulls wheeled above the surf, their mournful calls rending the air. Falasgil gave a whoop and Limros shot forwards, a blur of silver racing across the sands. In a moment Amloth and Cúrandir joined in pursuit, and the sound of laughter and pounding hooves joined the music of the waves. They came now to the edge of the shore, and Limros plunged into the surf, foam spraying upwards from his hooves. Amloth followed suit, racing across the foam-flecked sands like an arrow loosed from the bowstring.

Wind ruffled Cúrandir's tawny hair, which flew in disorder about his face. A fresh, tangy smell hung in the air, and he could taste the salty spray that flew up from the waves. The roaring of the ocean, the wailing of the gulls, and the pounding of Amloth's hooves that mirrored the exhilarated beating of his own heart surronded Cúrandir in a symphony of sounds. To the west, the Great Sea glimmered with a thousand shades of gold and scarlet. A fierce exultation bloomed within him. Never had he felt so fearless, so free - as if he could rise on the wings of the gulls that circled over the surf, defying the expectations that had clung to him since childhood. He _would_ make a new life for himself here in Lindon, his past be damned. And he would forge his own path upon these shores, with  bow and blade at his side.

The light upon the waters paled as the last rays of sunlight disappeared below the horizon. Cúrandir tugged on Amloth 's reins as he heard a shout from behind. Falasgil and Limros stood motionless on a rocky promontory to his left. Far away as they were, he could not discern what Falasgil was saying, but he was pointing upwards toward the darkening sky, an expression of delight on his face. His back to the waves, Cúrandir looked up and saw a star, gleaming silver-bright in the east. _Gil-Estel,_  the Star of Hope, hung low in the sky, as if it had come to rest over the western shores  of Forlindon. And directly below the gleaming star stood Falasgil, head upturned in wonder. The waning light cast a dim sheen upon his hair and silvery-blue garments, as if he were a fallen star cast upon the shore.  Slowly, almost reverently, Cúrandir dismounted Amloth and led him up the narrow path towards Falasgil and Limros, eyes trained on the star above them. He remembered when he had first seen Gil-Estel rise above the waters of Nenuial, and how he had decided to seek westwards for the lands of Lindon. The light of Ëarendil in the sky seemed to blink encouragingly at him, as if to offer him hope of starting afresh in this new land.

Falasgil turned around, hearing Cúrandir approach,  a wistful expression on his face.

"Beautiful, is it not? I never tire of watching Gil-Estel rise over the shore ... I suppose that is why my parents gave me the name _Falasgil -_ the star upon the shore.  I wonder if they too look upon the light of Ëarendil,  beyond the Great Sea." He turned to face the ocean, face limned in the pale light of evening.

Cúrandir watched the eastern sky darken in silence, turning Falasgil's words over in his mind. He seemed distant, almost ... sorrowful? In the deepening twilight it was difficult to reconcile the pensive young ellon with the lively youth he had met that morning. Cúrandir attempted to say something, anything, to break the tense silence, but Falasgil cleared his throat awkwardly.

"We should return to camp now." He fumbled for a handful of Limros' foam-white mane and mounted quickly. Cúrandir followed astride Amloth, casting one last look toward the shore. Falasgil sat stiffly upon his horse, head slightly bowed. Did he regret what he had let slip, in that moment by the shore? Cúrandir kept his wondering to himself, as they rode silently eastward, and the shadowy woods closed in around them once more.

Evening had fallen when they made their way back to their camp by the stream, where the embers of the fire  glowed dully beneath their banking of ashes and damp moss. Falasgil swung himself off his horse in one fluid motion and bent down by the fire, blowing away the ashes to reveal the still-bright embers. Cúrandir watched, leaning against a tree, as Falasgil built up the fire again, piling on bits of dry twigs and leaves until tiny flames flickered up from the glowing ashes. Falasgil's intent concentration on the fire made Cúrandir suddenly self-conscious of his own idleness. He ducked under the branches and picked up an armful of firewood that had been stacked at the tree's base, beside an assortment of satchels and tools Falasgil had meticulously secured and organised. Hesitantly, he crouched by the fire and tapped Falasgil on the shoulder.

"If you want that fire to last longer, you ought to put on some more substantial fuel, like this." The firewood made an earthy clatter as he set it down beside the campfire. Falasgil looked up and smiled, all traces of whatever feeling had overcome him  earlier gone from his face.

"What sort of hunter would I be if I did not know something as basic as that?" he quipped. "All the same, I thank you for bringing the logs here, my friend. " He turned back to the fire and began arranging the logs above the kindling, all the while giving a narration of how exactly he was building the fire in a quiet, but merry voice. Cúrandir quirked an eyebrow.

"There is quite a method to your fire-building, Falasgil. Though I would prefer the kindling to be arranged somewhat more like _this -_ " Cúrandir took a long stick from the ground and shifted the firewood slightly. The fire sprang to life, tongues of flame licking upwards at the dry logs and casting their faces in a ruddy glow.  Falasgil tossed a few chestnuts into the fire.

"These are the  last fruits of the past autumn - they will have to do, I suppose." He sat back with a content sigh.  "So, Cúrandir, what plans do you have for your stay in Lindon? "

"Nothing much, I suppose, but I would like to know this land better. I wondered at the  tales of the game and scenery  in Forlindon which the older hunters of Imladris would tell, but now, I am almost convinced." He winked at Falasgil. "Though they said nothing of the other hunters I would find  here in Lindon."  They both looked at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter. Cúrandir fumbled in his pack for a moment before drawing out a tempered-steel flask, wrought in the shape of a budding _mallorn_ blossom.

" _Miruvor_ from Imladris. Would you care for some?" He proffered the flask to Falasgil, who grinned and took the bottle of cordial. He uncorked it and gave it an experimental sniff, before taking a sip.

"This is quite ... strong, but I like it. Though it tastes nothing like the wines we make here in Lindon." He took another drink, and nodded appreciatively. "You must come round to Mithlond sometime - the vintages of Lindon are justly famous, and a good drink is always served best in good company. There is always a feast or some occasion to be celebrated in Mithlond, and our hospitality is quite renowned." Passing the flask back to Cúrandir, Falasgil smiled to himself, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"I may take you up on your offer come autumn, when it is not so pleasant to sleep outdoors," Cúrandir said, taking a sip of _miruvor._ "But at the moment, I find the company here to be quite enough. " He looked around at the campsite, and recalled the venison left in the branches of the nearby tree.

"What exactly are we going to do with the venison, Falasgil? I cannot imagine having to dry and prepare it _here._ " He shot Falasgil an amused glance.

"My family has a hunting-lodge a ways north of here. I will be spending a few days there, and you are welcome to come along, if you like. At any rate, you will only have your share of venison _if_ you help me prepare it." Falasgil smiled, blue eyes dancing with merriment. "Well, come along if you can tolerate my company for more than a few days. I have no Súlrohir to annoy this year, so you will have to do."

Cúrandir chuckled drily. "Your sister's husband is fortunate to escape this year, so it seems. But I thank you for your hospitality - and I am rather curious to see what your 'hunting lodge' looks like, so I will take you up on your offer. " He waved the cork of the _miruvor_ flask at Falasgil in a mock-threatening fashion. "And we have not yet settled the matter of _who exactly_ is going to be taking home the magnificent antlers of the stag we found today."

"I already said that you should have it, but we can settle the matter tomorrow." Falasgil grinned lopsidedly, a few strands of silver hair falling over the left side of his face. "You know, I am quite glad I ran into you today - I was already looking forward to spending an entire summer alone in Forlindon, but it will be so much more delightful with two."

"I am sure of it," Cúrandir replied, and tossed the corked flask of miruvor toward Falasgil. "Catch!" Falasgil reached out one hand and caught the flask while looking in the opposite direction.

"Please, that was not even difficult. I would think that an archer of your caliber had more tricks at his disposal." Falasgil took another sip of _miruvor._  "We will see tomorrow, eh? Do not think that I will let you win, the next time we match arrow for arrow."

"As if I would need it," Cúrandir retorted with a grin.

The sounds of the night drew close around them as they sat by the flickering fire, sometimes in silence, sometimes breaking into conversation. Stars appeared in the sky one by one, pinpricks of pale light in the gloaming darkness. As the murmur of the stream and the faint rustling of the sea breeze in the nearby boughs mingled once more, Cúrandir's mind hummed with anticipation. He had a premonition that this summer would be unlike any other he had seen in his life.


	6. Indor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer has passed, and the winds of autumn bring change to the lives of Falasgil and Tancamir. On the way to Mithlond, the two speak of family, and what it means to them.

"Are you certain this is a good idea?" Cúrandir frowned at Falasgil, who was busily closing up the windows and door of the hunting lodge.

"Of course! Do not even worry, Ningloriel can never refuse me a favour after I have been away for so long. " Falasgil flashed Cúrandir a grin.  "Now come and help me with this window, unless you want to stay in a mouldy lodge when we go hunting next summer!"

Cúrandir rolled his eyes, but picked up a hammer and began helping his friend board up the windows of the hunting lodge which had been their home for most of the summer. Strange how the days passed without monotony here, whereas they had seemed to drag in Imladris. Cúrandir had only expected to stay a few days in Falasgil's lodge, after their first chance meeting, but Falasgil had other ideas.  There was so much more to see in Lindon than just the forests and the shore, he had argued. And Cúrandir needed not doubt the hospitality of the Falathrim - he was welcome to stay as long as he wished. And so they had whiled away the entire golden summer together, hunting, laughing, and talking late into the night beside the ashes of their campfire.

Now the wind blew chill in the still-verdant branches overhead, laden with the promise of autumn. It ruffled Cúrandir's tawny hair, shoulder-length now but still as ragged and uneven as the day he had cut it with the blade of his dagger. He looked over one shoulder and motioned for Falasgil to hand him a few nails.

"I cannot believe it - after all the crazy things we have done this summer, this has to be the most absurd," he said. "How exactly did you talk me into this?"

"More absurd than cliff-diving?" Falasgil retorted with a roguish grin. "Ha! You should have seen your face, Cúrandir, when I told you that I had been diving as soon as I had learned how to swim. "

Both looked at each other and then burst into laughter. A moment later, when he had regained his breath, Cúrandir put down his hammer and stared at Falasgil apologetically.

"I really must thank you, but do you not think that inviting me to stay with you and your sister in Mithlond _for the foreseeable future_ is a bit much, Falasgil?" He shrugged. "I am sure I can find some work as a bowyer in Mithlond and procure myself a place to stay. I would not want to impose on your hospitality so much, after this summer."

"Oh no, you are not imposing in the least. You cannot imagine how dull it becomes at home, when Ningloriel is weaving away at her loom, and Súlrohir is off sailing round the bay. They will not mind you, I am sure." Falasgil gave Cúrandir a rakish grin.  "If worst comes to worst, I can always hide you in the basement."

Cúrandir punched Falasgil's shoulder lightly in mock outrage. "No one is hiding me in the basement! I will go with you to Mithlond, but if your sister objects to your absurd proposal (which I am sure she will) you must let me find lodgings elsewhere."

"Fine. And leave  me to the monotony of being the 'only child' again? I thought we were friends." Falasgil pouted melodramatically. "I shall go off to join the Guard, then, and seek an honourable death in battle. "

Cúranir snorted. "If the sergeant does not kick you out first. And you think being the only child is terrible? I grew up with _two_ younger sisters. Two of them, Falasgil. Anything has to be better than that. Think of all the blasted tea parties, and dresses, and hair ribbons you have never had to live with, and be thankful."

"There is nothing wrong with hair ribbons!" Falasgil protested. "They are an essential part of any formal hair-style.  I often braid blue ones into my hair for  festive occasions. In fact, I think emerald green ribbons would go marvellously with your hair. You ought to try it, sometime." He finished boarding up the last window and began to stow away the tools and nails.

Cúrandir cast Falasgil a mildly horrified glance. "No, thank you. I prefer my hair as it is." Handing over his hammer to Falasgil, he stalked around to the front door, which they had locked and boarded up as well. Their various belongings lay stacked on the doorstep, including a magnificently mounted stag's head, complete with a full rack of antlers. Whistling under his breath, Falasgil continued to fuss over the assortment of satchels and parcels before the door. When he was content they were in order, he snapped his fingers twice and Limros came trotting around the corner, tossing his foam-white mane.

"Saddle up, Cúrandir. Once our things are packed, we make for Mithlond! There will be a few days' camping on the way, but in four days' time we shall see the lights of home over the bay." Still whistling, he began to load his belongings onto his steed's back, securing them in a  cross-wise fashion with straps of leather and lengths of lightweight rope.

In a moment, Amloth poked his chestnut head around the corner of the lodge, whickering softly to his master. Cúrandir grinned and set about saddling his own horse for the coming journey. There were bulky packages of dried venison, as well as a few pouches of dried herbs and berries that Falasgil insisted he carry. Finally all was packed away save the great stag's head that lay on the doorstep, staring at them with glassy onyx eyes. Falasgil gave a low whistle.

"Stars, I had forgotten about that monstrosity. Who is going to carry that home? " The two looked at each other for a moment.

"You gave me the greater share of food to carry, you scoundrel," Cúrandir laughed. "Just because you ride without a saddle does not mean you must carry less of your share. I would like to see you try to fit the stag's head on that mess of rope and leather you call your 'saddle-bags.' "

Falasgil returned the teasing with a smirk. "Fine. Watch and be impressed. " He lifted the trophy onto the bags that already were secured to Limros' back, and tied it on deftly with strands of rope. "There, secure as a topsail in a gale. And now, let us be off!"

He swung onto Limros' bare back, and Cúrandir mounted Amloth as well. Both turned back for a moment to look fondly at the lodge where they had spent the summer, and forged a friendship that would not be forgotten.  Cúrandir drew out his steel flask, which had since been emptied of _miruvor_ and now contained a potent wine of Lindon. He took a sip, corked it, and tossed the bottle to Falasgil.

"To the passing summer, and to the autumn that comes." Cúrandir winked at Falasgil. "And to your sister Ningloriel and her hospitality, which I hope we will have."

Falasgil took a swig of the wine and grinned broadly. "May our arrows always fly side by side. To adventure, and Mithlond that awaits!" He made a great show of pocketing the flask for himself, than urged Limros on to a trot. "You may have your wine back when we make camp for the night ... if you can catch up."

With a joyous laugh, Cúrandir spurred Amloth onwards, and the two riders vanished into the trees.

***********

That evening, as they stretched out their bedrolls under the stars of Lindon, Cúrandir managed to sneak past Falasgil and steal back his flask from where Falasgil had hidden it. He held it behind his back, feigning innocence when Falasgil turned his head and raised an eyebrow in question.

"What? I have stolen nothing, why do you look at me so seriously?" Cúrandir quipped. He shook his head slightly, and a few leaves that had caught in his hair fluttered to the ground.

Falasgil grinned. "You can have it, I was only bluffing. It is yours anyway. " He sat down, smiling contentedly. "I cannot believe I am saying this, but I am glad now that the summer is over and that it is time to return to Mithlond."

Cúrandir arched an eyebrow. "Sudden change of heart towards serving in the Guard? How very unexpected of you. " He smiled lopsidedly, not wanting Falasgil to take offence at his words.

There was a beat of silence, and Falasgil's face took on a serious expression. His blue eyes were tinged with sorrow, and in the starlight his face seemed paler than normal. Cúrandir stared, taken aback. He was used to the Falasgil of light-hearted jests and laughing manner, who danced with the wind and wound rowan flowers into his hair. This Falasgil was altogether different, and bewildering.

"Did I ever tell you that I used to call Ningloriel 'mother'? " Falasgil's voice was barely above a whisper, yet each word seemed to weigh on him as he uttered it. Cúrandir shook his head 'no,' and motioned for Falasgil to continue.

"My sister is much older than I - in fact, she and Súlrohir were wed before I was born, yet that is not the reason. Our own mother fell ill shortly after I was born. It was a sickness of the spirit, the healers said. They said she had wearied of life on these shores and no manner of medicine would recall her will to live. So my father decided to sail West with her, in hopes that she would find healing and peace in Aman. I was only a babe at the time - and Ningloriel cared for me as her own. " Falasgil sighed, then glanced at Cúrandir and smiled wryly.

"It was a strange household, just the three of us - but I cannot say that I lacked for anything. I was quite a troublesome child, Ningloriel tells me, and I can easily believe her. All these years she and Súlrohir have been the best family I could ask , and yet I sometimes wish I were not so alone. "

Cúrandir gave his friend a strange look. "You? Alone? I am sure you have plenty of friends in Mithlond, as you yourself have told me. You spoke of your famous parties, of the dancing and merry-making all the winter long. Surely someone such as yourself finds no shortage of friends and acquaintances wherever you go. You have even managed to convince _me_ to regard you as a friend, when I was only interested in getting my fair share of the stag that I had shot down."

"Stop flattering me, you rogue," Falasgil said with a laugh. His face took on a slight tinge of melancholy. "Have you never felt alone in the midst of a crowd? I envy you, with your parents and your sisters. Why did you ever leave Imladris, when you truly had a family to call your own?"

"You did not know what it was like, Falasgil," Cúrandir said slowly, eyes never leaving the smouldering fire before them. "My father and I were never close - and it seemed as I grew older that I was ever a disappointment to him. He is an eminent scholar  in Imladris, and one of the Lord Erestor's trusted colleagues. I had no choice, from the day I was born, it seems,  than to eventually fill his shoes. "

"So you would leave home simply because you and your father were at odds? What of your mother, and your sisters? Did you not love them, even a little? Perhaps  your father cared for you somewhat, in his own way. Do you ever think of going back? They must think you wounded, or lost, or even worse." Falasgil's voice had taken on a steely edge, and he gazed steadily at Cúrandir's downcast face.

"I cannot go back," Cúrandir breathed. "Not now, when I have come this far. I love my mother more than anyone else I have known - she encouraged me to roam the wide woods and the green hills which reminded her of her homeland in Lórien.  But even she could not convince my father to put off his plans to make me a scholar. I was not a poor student as a child - I would have submitted to any amount of lessons if only he would have allowed me to do something else for the rest of my life, such as joining the Guard of Imladris as an archer.  Imladris  was no longer home, Falasgil. It was a cage - ever closing in on me day by day. " He drew a small dagger from his right gauntlet and turned it over meditatively. The steel glinted blood-red in the firelight.

"Do you see this dagger? I have told you of the trolls I slew that day I left home, but not of what other blood this blade has tasted." He drew a deep breath, face twisted in remorse. "I had dislocated my shoulder and would have fallen at the hand of the foul beasts, were it not for a Man that found me unconscious and drove away the trolls."

Falasgil leaned forwards, brows knitted in a frown. "No, you never told me what happened afterwards, or of meeting a Man. I still do not see how this has any bearing on why you insist on not returning home, though."

"I never met him, Falasgil. I know not when he dressed my wounds, but when I awakened I thought him a foe." Cúrandir threw his dagger to the ground and glared. "I stabbed him with my dagger, slaying him like any other beast, when he was the one who saved my life.  I remember little of the days that followed, save that I hid by day and travelled by night, always riding west. When my shoulder had healed, I was already far from Imladris. And then I came to Lindon, and did not wish to leave."

Falasgil put out a hand and rested it on Cúrandir's shoulder, all suggestion of judgment gone from his gaze. "Do not fault yourself. You had no way of discerning who he was." He gave Cúrandir a crooked grin. "I suppose I should count myself lucky that you decided to leave home and come to Lindon. This summer would have been so much more dull if I had not met you."

"Dull? I do not think you have ever had a dull moment in your life, to be honest." Cúrandir returned the grin and picked up his dagger, securing it in his gauntlet. "Three days' journey left  to Mithlond, you say? I do not think I have ever seen the city, unless in passing.  I turned north and west after crossing the Baranduin, as the wilds of Forlindon seemed more appealing to me at the moment. " He gave Falasgil a sharp look.

"Do you still insist on my remaining with your family as a guest in Mithlond? I would not do so, unless I had some way of repaying you.  I am not the worst of bowyers; perhaps you might know of any craftsmen in Mithlond that would welcome an apprentice?" He frowned slightly and brushed back a stray lock of hair.

"Ah, there is no need for that, I have already told you," Falasgil admonished. "It will be like having a real brother in the house, after all those years of being an only child. I have never had a brother my age; imagine all the fun we could get up to in Mithlond. " Suddenly his face fell and he sighed. "Well, I suppose that I will only have time for merriment after my training for the Guard finishes. I ought to be glad that they do not require the recruits to live in the barracks until they have passed their training. We will at least have the autumn together, then."

"Please, do not try to divert the subject by flattering me and then listing your own problems," Cúrandir said with a chuckle. "Why cannot we both join the Guard together? I would vastly prefer a life as an archer in the service of Mithlond than as a bowyer's apprentice. "

Falasgil's mouth dropped open, then curved into a wide smile. "You, my friend, are an absolute genius. I could not have thought of a better plan myself. It is not too late to enlist, if we return before the turning of autumn. Joining the Guard is mostly a ceremonial affair now, and nearly all the youths of my age have been recruits at one time or another.  I intend to leave after a few years of service and return to my family's trade, which is sail-weaving."

Cúrandir frowned slightly at Falasgil's light-hearted words. "Be not so quick to dismiss this opportunity. Ever have I dreamed of defending my homeland and those I love. I would have offered my bow in service to the forces of Imladris, had I been able. "

"Perhaps you will think differently after a week of drills and such," Falasgil quipped. "I have heard that the Sergeant in charge of the archer recruits has a temper more capricious than Ossë during a tempest."

Cúrandir laughed and tossed  Falasgil a roasted chestnut he had retrieved from the ashes of the fire. "We will see. But I am sure our training will not be so unbearable, if we face it together."

Falasgil whistled merrily as he stretched out on his bedroll, eyes gazing upwards at the stars. "I have a feeling we will be facing much more than just a grumpy Sergeant together, _indor._ For brothers in blood we may not be, but I would venture to call us brothers in heart."

" _Indor ..._  I like the sound of that, " Cúrandir grinned. "Brothers in heart, soon to be brothers in arms when we reach Mithlond. And may nothing divide us!" The stars above twinkled and nodded as if in agreement as night fell upon their camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Indor from Sindarin ind "inner thought, heart" and tôr "brother", similar to muindor (dear brother)


	7. Mithlond

The sun hung low in the sky when the two riders sighted the grey spires of Mithlond rising above the Bay of Lhûn. As they drew closer to the Grey Havens, the call of the gulls wheeling above the quays grew louder and more insistent. Cúrandir watched in silent wonder as the great stone ramparts of the city rose up before them. At the gate, an arch carven with the likenesses of blooming flowers and foaming waves, a guard stopped them and Falasgil dismounted, speaking with him in an undertone. Cúrandir hung back, still gazing at the city in awe. How different Mithlond was than Imladris - the haven of his birth had been a small settlement tucked into a hidden valley. The domes and arches of the city ahead made the House of Elrond seem provincial in comparison. And all gleamed with the age-worn sheen of greying stone, wrapped in a solemn, decaying beauty. It was here that many of the Eldar would turn back for their last sight of the Hither Lands before departing West to Aman.

All these thoughts, and several others, passed through Cúrandir's mind as he and Falasgil entered the gate and rode through the streets of Mithlond. The hooves of their horses made a dull _clop-clop_  upon the worn cobblestones. Amloth whinnied nervously, not accustomed to long streets paved with stone, and the continual traffic of merchants, artisans, and other inhabitants of the city. Cúrandir laid a comforting hand upon his horse's neck, speaking low to him in a soothing voice. Soon they came to a crossroads, and Falasgil reined in his horse, motioning for Cúrandir to do likewise.

"That road to the west leads to the Shipbuilders' Quarter." He waved a graceful hand in that direction. "My sister's husband, Súlrohir, works there in the shipyard. To the north-east, there is the Square of Merchants, where my sister often goes on market-days. The fishermen come there to sell their wares, as well. If you follow the road south-west past the shipyards, you will come to the Old Quarter and the Square of Círdan. All the oldest buildings are there, built along the quays. My home is to the north, along this road here. Ningloriel has a shop in the Square of Merchants where she sells her wares and repairs sails that have already been made."

Cúrandir nodded, taking in the grandeur and breadth of the city with astonishment. "Is it a long ways to your home?" Absentmindedly he added," How does one keep a horse in this city, which is all grey stone and smooth cobbles? "

Falasgil gave a bubbly laugh. "Oh no, during the summer, Limros runs free in the marshes northwest of the city. It is only the better part of a day's walk - I will show you sometime. He was once wild, before I tamed him. It is a magnificent sight to see entire herds of horses running free in the salt-water marshes which border the Gulf of Lhûn. But in the autumn and winter Limros is happy to stay in the stable near our home, for the sea-shore is a harsh place to be when the rains come. I make sure he never lacks for exercise, and we get on quite well. I am sure Amloth will not mind the stable either."

"No, of course not. Yet I would like to see the marshes north of Mithlond some time, Falasgil." Cúrandir  laughed in return.

 "We shall have time to see them once your lodgings are settled and we have our enlistment done. " Falasgil whistled to Limros, who picked up his pace slightly as they turned to the northwest.

The wide thoroughfare that had led from the first crossroads branched out into many smaller roads, all paved with grey stone that glimmered in the afternoon light. Falasgil led them onwards through the city, past many turns and crossings, until the road began to wind steadily uphill. There were no merchants hawking their wares here, or even the occasional cart filled to the brim with lumber for the shipyards or fish from the quays. Instead, rows of houses lined the street, and the contented sound of waves lapping against the sea-wall rose to their left. Here, the grand spires and elegant arches of the inner city gave way to gentler and simpler masonry. Every so often, Falasgil would hail a passer-by, sometimes even riding up to the front garden of a house to warmly greet a friend or neighbor. Cúrandir watched with great amusement as they rode past a house where two young _ellith_ were sewing in the front garden. Falasgil whistled at them, waved his hand merrily, and tossed them a few rowan blossoms that had been twined in his hair. The girls looked up, shrieked with merriment, then scrambled to pick up the flowers.

Cúrandir arched a brow as they rode away, the sound of the girls' laughter and excited chattering fading into the distance.

"I did not know you had such ardent admirers," he said amusedly.

"Ah, no, they are merely some good friends of mine. The flowers are sort of a private joke among us. Their father is a shipwright, and a good friend of Súlrohir's." He smiled, as if remembering fond memories.  "The tall one with dark hair is Síriel, and the younger one is Aeril. You would do well to keep out of their way when they are in a mischievous mood. Ah, the pranks they pulled on the dock-workers  as youngsters!"

"Somehow, I do not doubt you were just as guilty as they, concerning the pranks," Cúrandir retorted with a smile.

At the end of a narrow lane bordered with a neatly clipped hedge lay a modest-looking house of weathered stone. It lay on the extreme western end of the street, the back windows facing west over the sea-wall that rose from the shore.  Two wings of the house ran back from the street, encircling a garden blooming with flowers that Cúrandir had never seen before.  Briar roses grew over the sunny doorway, their pale pink blossoms swaying in the sea breeze. Falasgil's smile grew brighter as they approached the lane, and when they drew near the house he vaulted from his horse's back and ran towards the door. He rang the brass bell hanging by the door, and in a moment it opened to reveal the smiling face of an elleth.

She wore a thick canvas apron over a simple dress of blue linen. Her wavy golden hair was tied back in a neat but winsome braid that coiled over one shoulder and fell to her waist. As she saw Falasgil, her blue eyes glimmered with happiness and her mouth curved into a wide, dimpled smile.

"Falasgil! What a pleasant surprise! I had not expected you until the turning of the autumn, which is near a fortnight away. " She turned away from the door and called into the hallway, "Súlrohir! Falasgil is home early. Can you spare a few minutes and help him with his un-packing?"

Cúrandir had dismounted, but stood several paces away from the doorway, unsure of what to say in the face of this joyous reunion. Aloof and feeling very much out of place, he laid one hand on Amloth's bridle and watched as Súlrohir emerged from a side door, wearing a leather apron dusty with wood-shavings. Falasgil embraced both his sister and her husband fondly, but then turned towards Cúrandir.

"Sister, brother, I have a friend I must introduce to you. This is Cúrandir, whom I met hunting in Forlindon. Cúrandir, these are my sister Ningloriel and my law-brother Súlrohir. " He strode over to Cúrandir, draping an arm around his shoulders with a grin. "Cúrandir here is an excellent archer  - in fact he helped me take down the stag whose head you see here, preserved as a trophy."

Ningloriel raised an eyebrow at Falasgil, turning her laughing gaze upon him. "A fine prize, though I wonder where we shall place it in the house."  She smiled warmly at Cúrandir, who was still awkwardly standing with Falasgil's arm around his shoulders. "Welcome, Cúrandir.  You really must not mind my brother here, he has the unfortunate habit of acquiring friends wherever he goes. Come in, you must be tired from travelling so long. Súlrohir, see to it that their horses are stabled, please." She bustled into the hallway, and already they could hear the sound of dishes being drawn out in the kitchen, and glasses being set upon the table.

Súlrohir turned to Cúrandir and bowed. "It is my pleasure to meet any friend of Falasgil's. Would you mind if I stabled your mount?" He brushed back a lock of dark hair that had found its way out of the woven hair-tie at the nape of his neck. His face was broad and good-natured, his countenance lightly tanned from time spent in the shipyards or out at sea. Wide, callused hands grasped Limros' bridle as Súlrohir turned to speak with Falasgil for a moment.

"If you could show me the stable ... I think Amloth would be happier if I were to lead him there." Cúrandir said, nodding at Súlrohir. There was something about him that set one immediately at ease, whether in the forthright smile on his face, or the confident set of his broad shoulders.

In a few moments the horses were settled, and Tancamir followed Falasgil in kicking off his boots at the door. He entered the low hallway, hung with delicately woven tapestries in shades of silver, blue, and grey. The inside of the house was in keeping with its humble, yet welcoming exterior. Rugs woven of fine rope lay upon the tiled floor, and Cúrandir could not help but stare at some of the sea-shells, driftwood carvings, and other curios which graced each room. All this time he kept silent out of suspense, not knowing what would come of his meeting with Falasgil's family.

Falasgil, sensing his friend's mood, clapped him on the back and grinned reassuringly. "Really, Cúrandir, there is no reason to look so serious. Ningloriel and Súlrohir love you already, I am sure of it. Besides, this house is also my own, and there is no reason why a friend of mine would not be welcomed here."

"Do you think your sister will agree to your ... idea?" Cúrandir frowned. "You seem quite confident in your own ... charms to persuade her."

Falasgil rolled his eyes and gave Cúrandir's shoulder a playful shove. "Of course; I am the baby of the family, and she would not deny me such a favour. Do not worry about anything. Remember, if worst comes to worst there is always the basement ..."

Cúrandir laughed. "You would not dare!" He glanced down the hall, towards the table which Ningloriel had set with plates of fruit, bread and glasses of wine. "Should we go to the table? Your sister seems to have something prepared for us, and I will not deny that I am famished after travelling all day."

Once all were seated, Ningloriel turned to Cúrandir. "I hope you like white wine - there is not much of the other kind in the cellar at present. " She poured each one a glass, then motioned at the platter of fruit. "Please, help yourself. As Falasgil seems to have taken a fancy to you, make yourself at home." Her blue eyes, fringed with long lashes, seemed to be perpetually laughing and filled with light. Though she did not resemble Falasgil at first glance, Cúrandir could now discern the family connection in her eyes and the particular way her mouth dimpled when she smiled.

Falasgil took a large handful of berries and finished them off, then turned to his sister with a grin. "You would not mind if Cúrandir stayed with us in Mithlond for a while, would you? He and I will enlist in the Guard together. " He flashed a winsome smile at Ningloriel. "Please? I can have the guest room made up for him; I am sure it will be no trouble."

Ningloriel gave a sigh of fond exasperation. "Whether I mind or no, you seem to have your heart set on it. Cúrandir may stay with us for a time, but first I would like to hear how you two met. " She turned her blue eyes upon Cúrandir.  "Your are welcome to stay here, if you have no home in Lindon."

He nodded gratefully at her, then glanced sidewise at Falasgil, who seemed to be occupied with his glass of wine. Cúrandir gave his shoulder a prod, then laughed as Falasgil glared at him.

"I travelled here from Imladris, and happened upon Falasgil in the woods of Forlindon. I was hunting." Cúrandir began rather awkwardly.

With a grin, Falasgil cut him off and began to regale Ningloriel and Súlrohir, who had unobtrusively joined them a few minutes ago, with the tale of the deer shot by two different arrows. Cúrandir watched with amusement as Falasgil recounted their archery competition in lively terms, his hands gesturing animatedly.

"Do you see, Ningloriel? Cúrandir means to settle in Lindon now, and if he were to live with us it would be like having a brother my own age. " Falasgil beamed at his sister. "I would get into so much less trouble with  Cúrandir to keep me in check."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Ningloriel replied, eyes twinkling with merriment. "But I think that remains to be seen, hm?" She rose from her chair and smiled. "You two enjoy your refreshment; I have some weaving which ought to be finished before evening. If you are truly serious about this, Falasgil, you shall make up the guest-room for your friend. There are some things that even I will not do for you." With a rustle of her dress she swept out of the kitchen, pausing only to look back over her shoulder and call out, "And remember to clear away the dishes when you are done, Falasgil."

The bread and fruit gradually disappeared from the table, as did most of the wine. Cúrandir was not sure what to think, having expected a more thorough inquisition on the part of Falasgil's sister. But her welcoming manner had put him at ease, and when the repast was finished he rose to his feet and began helping Falasgil to clear the table. With amusement he watched as Falasgil recounted the minute peculiarities of how the dishes were to be washed, dried, and arranged in the cupboards.  

"You will have the guest room, then. " Falasgil put away the last plate and closed the cabinet softly. "Come on, and bring your belongings from the front room. Leave your share of venison, but bring everything else." With a wink he ducked into a side corridor, motioning Cúrandir to follow.

The guest room faced west across the bay, arched windows opening to a view of the back garden and the sea beyond it. In a few moments, Cúrandir had placed his bow and quiver against the wall, and began arranging his other belongings in the chest of drawers which stood on the southern wall of the room.  It was simple and not at all like his room in Imladris, which had been decorated with several trophies of deer antlers and a large tapestry depicting a hunting-scene in Doriath, embroidered by his mother. Falasgil entered a moment later carrying an armful of pillows and linens.

"These are for the bed - I think we will have to change the sheets as we have not had guests for some while. Here, catch!" He flung a pillow somewhat comically at Cúrandir, then deposited the rest of the things upon the bed.

Cúrandir caught the pillow, regarding his friend with detached amusement. "Do you never run out of energy? It must be tiring to be this cheerful all the time. I myself am rather tired from travelling most of the day."

"Well, I prefer being tired and cheerful to being rested and unhappy, " Falasgil quipped. "If you cannot look on the bright side of things you miss half the fun in life.  At any rate, you may rest but I would prefer if you were awake for the evening meal. Ningloriel makes the most delicious oysters you have ever tasted."

"I cannot say I have ever tasted oysters in my life, so I will prepare to be surprised, " Cúrandir replied. After tucking in the corner of the sheet, he looked at the neatly made bed and frowned, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Now, what of our  enlistment in the Guard? Surely one does not simply walk up to the Sergeant and give one's name?"

"No, of course not," Falasgil said. "Yet they will not ask you too many questions. It is rather expected of all able youths to serve as recruits one time or another when they are of age. Leave the talking to me, and stop worrying like a fractious old matron. Is not Mithlond beautiful? Think of all the fun we will have here, and not of such petty matters."

"Life is not merely about fun," Cúrandir retorted with a smirk. "If you did not have me to keep you in line I would wager you would be finding a way to dodge enlistment again."

"And if you did not have me to keep you light-hearted, I'd wager you would always walk around with that sullen face of yours, making sarcastic remarks at all the world." Falasgil laughed merrily. "But I am not that stupid as to dodge enlistment. Tomorrow we will pay a visit to the garrison and put our names on the list, as it were."

Cúrandir nodded in content, a smile lighting his face. "It is good to hear you talking responsibly for once. Show me the rest of the house, then. And I would also like to see the stables. We have some time before the evening meal, do we not?"

Falasgil nodded, beaming. "Very well. Come along then, my room is down the hall and I think there are some trophies there that would interest you." He paused, then broke into riotous laughter. "Oh stars above, speaking of trophies,  where are we going to put that deer head we brought home from Forlindon?  I would put it in my room, for we all know that _I_ shot first, but for the fact that there are simply too many things upon my walls. Perhaps we can convince Ningloriel to put it up in the front room?"

"You rascal, you know perfectly well I that _I_  shot first," Cúrandir retorted. "Why not put it in the guest room, as it seems I will be staying there _for the foreseeable future._ " He shoved Falasgil's shoulder, then followed him outside into the hall. The sound of their companionable bickering, punctuated by Falasgil's musical laugh, faded into the afternoon as they continued down the hall, sharing memories and hoping to make new ones together upon the streets of Mithlond.


End file.
